Things Dreamed
by Jo-Anne Storm
Summary: Evidence of Things Not Seen" post ep. Josh talks to Stanley Keyworth.


Title: Things Dreamed  
  
Author: Jo-Anne Storm  
  
Rating: PG Disclaimer: If I owned them, don't you think Josh and Donna would have gotten together by now? Synopsis: A post ep for "Evidence of Things Not Seen." Josh's call to Stanley Keyworth. A/N: This is the conversation between Josh and Stanley after "Things Not Seen." The conversation is anything but linear, so at times it may be a little hard to understand. Truthfully, though, can you see Josh just coming out and admitting, even to his shrink, what's bothering him?  
  
This is a bit angsty. It is a J/D fic even though Donna doesn't appear in it.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
He called him. Not because he felt a particular need to, because he had heard gun fire and had an episode. No, he called him because she wanted him to. He dialed the number because she had not asked him to call, not with her voice. She had asked him with the worry evident in her eyes. She had asked by calling ahead and warning the man that such a call might come.  
  
"Hello, Josh," Stanley Keyworth answered his phone after the first ring.  
  
"You always answer your cell phone like that?"  
  
"I figured after tonight someone in DC would want to talk to me. You're the contact person. Besides, who else would call me at 11 o'clock at night?"  
  
"I dunno. Maybe someone with an emergency?"  
  
"Is this an emergency?"  
  
"No."  
  
"So you see my point."  
  
Josh chuckled wryly. "I do."  
  
"Do I need to get a flight out?" Stanley asked once it became obvious that Josh wasn't going to start the conversation.  
  
"No. No, I wasn't asked to contact you. In fact, I don't even know why I'm talking to you. I'm fine."  
  
"Donna called me."  
  
"I know."  
  
"She said you were in the building when the shots were fired."  
  
"I was."  
  
"Did you have an episode?"  
  
"I don't like that word."  
  
"Episode?"  
  
"Yeah. It sounds like, I don't know, like we're trying to sugar coat it. Why not just call it was it is? They're attacks."  
  
"PTSD doesn't have a conscious mind. It can't attack you," Stanley pointed out.  
  
"I know that. Just . . . Don't call it an episode."  
  
"OK. Did you have an attack?"  
  
"No. I was in the Roosevelt Room. I barely even heard the shots."  
  
"What were you doing?"  
  
"Interviewing a Republican for the position of Associate Counsel. We can't seem to get away from Republicans for that position."  
  
"Maybe the job just attracts them," Stanley offered.  
  
"Donna thought he was cute. A male version of Ainsley Hayes."  
  
"I see." And he did indeed see. If he hadn't figured out Josh's feelings for his assistant during their first marathon session, he had soon afterwards. He didn't reveal to Josh that he got the same type of reactions from Donna when he talked to her, both when he interviewed her concerning her boss that fateful Christmas and the few times he had talked to her since, when she called to set up meetings or phone calls. He also didn't try to nudge Josh towards his assistant, knowing full well that it would be professional suicide for both his patient and Donna. Instead, he let Josh talk about the woman he was desperately in love with, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself.  
  
"When was the last time you had an attack?"  
  
"Three months ago."  
  
"What happened three months ago?"  
  
"So, anyway, this guy, Joe Quincy, considered Debevoise and Plimpton to be his back up."  
  
Stanley followed the segue easily. He was used to the verbal dance that reluctant patients performed. One step forwards, two steps back.  
  
"Debevoise and Plimpton?"  
  
"A law firm. My father's law firm, actually. He would have been made a junior partner, I'm sure."  
  
"So why did he want to work for government wage?"  
  
"Because he wants to serve. That's what he says, at least."  
  
"Do you believe him?"  
  
"He didn't sign the form."  
  
"What form?" Stanley asked.  
  
"The SF-86. It asks questions like are you sad, have you ever tried to overthrow the government, that sort of thing."  
  
"Why didn't he sign it?"  
  
"He didn't vote for the president. He thought that would reflect poorly on the administration if it came out."  
  
"What happened three months ago?" Stanley asked again.  
  
"There was a fire. It wasn't a big thing."  
  
"So why didn't you call me?"  
  
"It was minor. Not a thing. Anyway, I think we'll hire him."  
  
"Joe Quincy?"  
  
"Yeah. Did I tell you that Donna thinks he's handsome?"  
  
"You did. I thought she was dating the Navy commander."  
  
Josh laughed wryly. "I really haven't talked to you in awhile, have I? They broke up."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"He got transferred to Italy."  
  
"Really? Did you have anything to do with that?"  
  
"Why do you ask?"  
  
"Because you've told me before that you go out of your way to sabotage Donna's relationships."  
  
"Do you write down everything I say?"  
  
"I have a photographic memory for things I hear. It comes in handy in my field."  
  
"I can imagine."  
  
"Did you get him transferred?"  
  
"No. No, I didn't. He, uh, I actually liked him; I thought he was a good guy. But, he did his job, which entailed pissing off someone with more strings to pull than him. So he was transferred."  
  
"Donna must have been upset."  
  
"A little, yeah. There was a quote in 'The Washington Post' just as he was leaving. He was talking to a, uh, researcher, and didn't realize that he was on the record. It was an amateur mistake."  
  
"Did he get in trouble?" Stanly prodded. He had learned that with Josh it was best to allow him to ramble. He would eventually get to what was on his mind.  
  
"No. He was gone by the time that we figured out it was him. Everyone thought it was Donna."  
  
"Did you think it was Donna?"  
  
"Not at first, no. But, she told CJ she had said it. I should have known better. Donna learned early in the administration to watch what she said to anyone connected to the press."  
  
"That sounds like there's a story behind it," Stanley said after Josh was silent for a moment.  
  
"Yeah. She was pranked by her predecessor. The former Deputy's assistant."  
  
"So, what happened?"  
  
"With the quote? She hid out in her apartment instead of going to the Inaugural balls. She sat in her apartment, wearing a dress she couldn't afford, with her hair all curly and makeup on."  
  
"She was planning on making an appearance?"  
  
"No. No, she said she didn't think it was appropriate for her to go because of the quote."  
  
"But she was ready for the balls."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"When did you find out that she wasn't responsible for the quote?"  
  
"The night of the balls. I drug her ass out of her apartment and to them."  
  
"Did you yell at her for claiming that the quote was hers?"  
  
"No. You know, she said she did it because he had his whole career ahead of him. She didn't even consider the ramifications to her own."  
  
"She sounds very selfless."  
  
"She's stupid," Josh contradicted. "She was going to sacrifice her whole career for that stupid gomer. I was so mad."  
  
"At her?"  
  
"No, at Commander Wonderful. And at Cliff Calley and Dr. Freeride. All these guys take advantage of her."  
  
"So what did you do?"  
  
"I told him exactly what I thought of him."  
  
Stanley paused for a moment, slightly confused by this information. "He was still in DC?"  
  
"No, he was in Italy."  
  
"Josh, you didn't use taxpayers' money in order to find this guy, did you? Misusing government resources is a serious thing."  
  
"Well, technically everything I do is on the taxpayers' dollar. They pay my salary, after all. But, no, I waited a few days and used the internet to find the number for the base."  
  
"And you talked to him?"  
  
"That's one way of putting it. I reamed him a new one. Uh, told him that any man who was willing to let a woman cover for him wasn't much of a man."  
  
"I happen to agree with you. What happened three months ago? With the fire?"  
  
"Ah, it was no big deal. Mrs. Zemada had a little accident. A fire extinguisher would have put it out, but Mrs. Zemada is in her eighties and freaked out a little. The sirens and lights from the fire truck brought it all back for a minute. I was OK. Didn't even have a nightmare that night."  
  
"Did you go to sleep after the attack?"  
  
"Well, no. But I didn't have a nightmare."  
  
Stanley laughed along with his patient. "When was the last time you did have a nightmare?" he asked after a moment of silence.  
  
"A few weeks ago I, uh, made Donna shadow this guy, a guest at a Daughters of the American Revolution reception held for Zoey. He was a security risk, something about drug possession. So, she goes to this reception and basically stalked this guy because I told her to. In January she ran all over Washington trying to track down a senator. When there was a problem with Air Force One, she was the one who researched the maintenance record and briefed CJ. She keeps me organized, puts up with my moods and demands, not to mention the whole PTSD thing. And Lieutenant Commander Jack Reese dismissed what she did without a thought. When I talked to him, he had the audacity to tell me that she was just a secretary and I could easily get a new one."  
  
"You could get a new assistant, if Donna ever left for some reason."  
  
"No, no one would be as good as Donna. Besides, why, why would she leave?"  
  
"I don't know. She might get a better job offer."  
  
"She did. Political Issues Editor or something like that for a dot.com. I couldn't offer her a raise or even a title bump to convince her to stay. But she did."  
  
"What would you have done if she had taken the job?"  
  
"Show up late for all my meetings," he quipped. "Before Donna, I averaged an assistant every four months. She's lasted almost seven years now."  
  
"So, you're saying you'd be lost without her."  
  
"Last night," Josh said, confusing Stanley for an instant.  
  
"What happened last night?"  
  
"I had a nightmare."  
  
"I see. What triggered the nightmare?" When Josh didn't answer, he tried a different tack. "Will you have a nightmare tonight?"  
  
"No. I talk to you to prevent nightmares, remember."  
  
"Is that why you called me?"  
  
"No. No, I called you because she wanted me to."  
  
Stanley mentally went over their phone conversation, looking for clues about what had bothered Josh the day before. "What happened to Donna yesterday?"  
  
"Who said anything happened to Donna?"  
  
"I just assumed. You've talked about her an awful lot tonight."  
  
"Yeah, sorry. I'm rambling. I do that at, ugh, almost 2 am."  
  
"It's after midnight here, Josh. That means it's after 2 there."  
  
"Yeah. My watch sucks."  
  
"So buy a new one."  
  
"No. I can't."  
  
"Was it a gift?"  
  
"Was what a gift?"  
  
"Your watch," Stanley prodded.  
  
"No."  
  
"Then why can't you replace it?"  
  
"If I replace it then Donna won't have to tell me that I have to leave for a meeting."  
  
Stanley waited a beat as he digested this information. "You keep a watch that doesn't keep time so that your assistant can tell you the correct time?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"OK. What did you dream about last night?"  
  
"The guy, tonight, he was trying to commit suicide by cop. Or, I guess it should be suicide by Secret Service agent. They didn't even fire at him; they just tackled him to the ground."  
  
"Josh. . ."  
  
"I can't help but wonder what made this guy so desperate that he wanted to die. Even at my lowest point I didn't want to die. Not really."  
  
"The agents would know. You could ask them."  
  
"Nah. They'd just look at me like I was crazy, which I guess is true."  
  
"What happened yesterday?"  
  
"I joked about it. To Joe, tonight. I joked that I heard a brass quartet playing, so someone had to be locked and loaded."  
  
"That's good. That's progress."  
  
"Yeah. We get better, right?"  
  
"Yes, we do."  
  
"Someone has bullets with her name on them," Josh finally said.  
  
"Donna's name?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"I dunno. The modern day version of Ranel McCoy, for all I know."  
  
"And Donna's been cast as a Hatfield."  
  
"Yeah. She got a letter yesterday from the guy. It said that every gun we ban, he's collecting and putting a bullet in. Each bullet has her name on it."  
  
"This was in a letter?"  
  
"Yeah. She, uh, she tried to make sure that I wouldn't find out about it. But, she had put it in her desk drawer and forgot about it. I found it when I was looking for a thing."  
  
"Did you talk to her about it?"  
  
Josh's laughter had an edge of hysteria to it. "She said it wasn't the first one she had received. That that particular one was one of the more polite letters. She's gotten them since the campaign, just because she works with me."  
  
"Did you take it to the police?"  
  
"The Treasury Department. Any and all threats to staff goes to the Treasury Department."  
  
"What did they say?"  
  
"That it was one of thousands of similar threats received every year by the staff. Tenney, the agent in charge of that sort of thing, said it was nothing to worry about."  
  
"But it triggered a nightmare."  
  
"Yeah. Donna. . . Donna works with me, that's all. What would happen if I ever got married, ever had a serious relationship. The threats would get even worse. All because she's married to me."  
  
"Donna."  
  
"Huh? No. No, whoever's crazy enough to marry me. Donna receives threats simply because she works with me. How can I ever have a relationship when simply working with me is cause for death?"  
  
"Donna hasn't left. She's still working for you."  
  
"I think I've demonstrated pretty well that Donna's not the sharpest knife in the drawer," Josh laughed, black humor coming to the fore.  
  
"It won't always be like this," Stanley pointed out reasonably. "You have, what, three and a half years left in the White House. After that the threats will die down."  
  
"That's it, though. They won't. They'll always be out there, no matter what. They're there because I'm Jewish. If I marry another Jew, she'll get threats for being Jewish. Protestant, Catholic, it doesn't matter. My wife will be in danger because of who I am."  
  
"When was the last time you went to Temple?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because actively practicing religion is often a comfort in situations like this."  
  
"Saturday. I go to the late service every Saturday night. Don't tell Toby, though."  
  
"Why shouldn't I tell Toby?"  
  
"He likes to think he's more Jewish than everyone else. He likes to think that because he grew up in Brooklyn in the 60s. It gives him something to grouse about, which keeps him happy."  
  
"What was the dream?" Stanley asked, trying to get the late-night phone call back on track.  
  
"She was shot."  
  
"Donna?"  
  
"Yeah. She was standing beside me, like she always does, and she was shot. They were aiming at me, but they missed."  
  
"Did she die? In your dream?"  
  
"No. Or, I don't. . . I woke up. There was blood and I couldn't help her because I woke up."  
  
"That's a perfectly normal nightmare, Josh."  
  
"I know. I know. I called her as soon as I woke up. It was 4 am. I called her and woke her up because I was scared."  
  
"Was she mad?"  
  
"Yeah. I, uh, I told her I called her because she needed to come into work early. She told me she quit."  
  
"But she didn't," Stanley reassured, hearing the panicky note in Josh's voice.  
  
"No, she didn't. You know, I've fired her over a hundred times. She just ignores me. That's probably why she has managed to stay for over six years."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
Josh was silent for a moment, trying to get his emotions back under control. Finally, he spoke again.  
  
"Yeah. It's late. I should go."  
  
"All right. You'll call if you have an attack or if you need to talk."  
  
"Yeah, I will," Josh assured before he hung up the phone.  
  
Physically and emotionally exhausted, he leaned his head back against his couch and brought the ice and vodka, now watered down vodka, he had made when he got home to his lips. Even watered down, the liquid burned his throat, a good burn. A burn that, if he was lucky, would erase the image of Donna from his dream the night before.  
  
She had been so beautiful in his dream. Clad in flowing white, she had been so happy as they had bounded down the steps of his childhood synagogue, ducking to avoid the rice that their friends and family pelted at them. The shot had sounded more like a cannon than small arms fire. A bloody rose had bloomed on her breast, obscuring the perfect white material. Their friends, their family, had disappeared and he had tried to stem the flow.  
  
With a groan, he downed the rest of his drink, gasping when the glass was empty. Red on white still flashed behind his lids, so he reached for the bottle once again. 


End file.
